SPCFC III: The Search For Spike
by AVAAntares
Summary: Third installment in the SPCFC chronicles. A rescue mission goes dangerously awry. Cowboy Bebop, Witch Hunter Robin, Noir, Lord of the Rings, Final Fantasy VII, Maverick... and a few surprises.
1. In Which Arrives The Replacement, and

**SPCFC III: The Search For Spike**

**The Third Installment In The Ongoing Adventures of The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Fictional Characters**

[AN: If you haven't already read SPCFC: Yaoi Vengeance, you might want to skim through it. While it's not vital to the plot of this story, there are a few references to it in this installment. Of course, there are also plenty of references to the original SPCFC story by Melchoir, which is not posted, so... just muddle through as best you can. It'll all make sense eventually. :) ]

**Chapter the First**

**In Which Arrives The Replacement, and Exits The Second Director**

The Director stood and stretched, her fingers nearly brushing the low ceiling of the control room. Her shoulders burned from the stress of her week-long shift, and she was looking forward to her break – and sleeping in her own bed for the first time in seven days. Still, there was a nagging emptiness in her chest that she knew wouldn't be healed by a good night's sleep.

_Two weeks._ One week on, two weeks off, was the pattern she'd lived by for the past… how long had it been? And still she urged the hours to fly faster until her return, when she could fill her post and carry on her own private mission. _Two more weeks until I can search again._ She rubbed her eyes and tried to make them focus on the reports she was attempting to finish.

The control room door whisked open behind her, and she turned to find her replacement filling the doorway. "Glad you're here early," she yawned, after their usual greetings. "It'll keep me from falling asleep at my post."

The third Director reached for a sheaf of papers and skimmed the incident records. "Rough week?" he asked, eyeing her over the folder.

She shrugged, feeling the muscles pull across her shoulders as she moved them. A hot bath would be a nice start… "Not so rough, but busy. You know, after the fire, we were so short-staffed that everyone had to work double shifts, and now it's catching up to us. Most of our Inspectors and Retrievers are asking for days off now, and those that aren't are too worn down to do any strenuous jobs. Wilmer was injured last week, and Steed gave him time off to recover. A lot of our personnel are still working on the reconstruction, too. I was out retrieving several times this week."

"It must have been busy, then. Anything interesting?"

"Nothing huge, until yesterday. I handled a couple of cases of extreme BA. There was one particularly messy one from KC4; I thought at first that he was going to reject the relocation, but we were so far behind by then that I just pushed him through. I've checked on him since, and he seems to be doing all right."

"What happened yesterday?"

"Nasty business with a _doujinshi_ circle. I'm finishing the report now, though I'm afraid it's somewhat abridged. We had to go outside official channels, if you know what I mean. You can ask Doujima Yurika for all the gory details that aren't in the file; she handled most of it first-hand."

Her replacement nodded and flipped through some of the week's reports while she finished her paperwork. Finally, she set down her pen and leaned back to put her feet up on the table. The man across the table smirked at her informality, but did not look up – she knew he was gentleman enough to ignore the temptation her skirt undoubtedly presented.

When Steed had introduced the dark-haired agent as their new co-Director, she had been surprised. He had been an SPCFC operative for only a few weeks, but his command experience apparently went deeper than she'd realized. As it turned out, the position could not have been more perfect – the third Director performed his duties thoroughly and with unbelievable efficiency. Although he spoke little and fraternized less, she approved of him on a level far deeper than her professional sensibilities. It was true that he seemed almost antisocial at times, but there was something familiar about his reticence and guarded manner. It seemed that he had lost something valuable and, like her, didn't know quite how to retrieve it. There had come to be a kind of intrinsic understanding between the two, though neither could have qualified it with words.

Not to mention that with three Directors sharing the schedule, she had two weeks to recover between the particularly trying shifts they'd had of late. Admittedly, that was a mixed blessing, but better to have too much free time than too little. She couldn't imagine how Steed had managed to run the place on his own, before her own promotion to Director. Perhaps there had been another co-Director before her. She would have to ask him sometime.

The smooth baritone of the third's voice roused her from her near-sleep. "You seem to have paid a lot of attention to this IDC case on Wednesday," he commented. "Was there outside interference?"

She dropped her heels to the floor and straightened, smoothing her skirt down over her thighs. "They had been in that world, though not recently. I was just trying to eliminate traces of their presence, after we straightened out the identity problem. They're not as neat or as conscientious as we are, and since I was already there, I thought it might be wise to clean up, in order to prevent future entanglements." She stopped just short of rambling, and silently reminded herself to work on her impromptu excuses.

"That's still a lot of time to spend in one place, especially when your schedule was so full." He favored her with one of his rare smiles, a subtle twitch of the lips that had taken her months to identify as such. "And of course you wouldn't have been working on any _outside_ projects during that time…"

She crossed her arms, eyeing him across the table. He was dangerously close to violating the unspoken rule of the co-Directorship. It was known that each of them spent some time working on non-Society business, but there was a mutual agreement not to discuss it. "I don't ask, you don't ask," she warned.

"I'm not asking. I'm merely expressing my professional concern that you're letting your extracurricular pursuits interfere with what little sleep you might get during your shift."

"If I am, it's of no concern to Him. We're doing our job, and I have the next two weeks to catch up on my sleep."

"So long as it doesn't affect your judgment while you're working."

She frowned and tucked a stray lock of black hair behind her ear, taking time to frame her thoughts. "I think," she began slowly, "that He chose us as His Directors _because_ we have our own agendas, not in spite of them. I don't know why, unless it proves to Him that we're not just pawns – we think for ourselves and make our own decisions. He certainly wouldn't let us do anything that would hurt the Society, but I think He wants us to have some autonomy. And as for the operations side of it," she added quickly, "maybe our ulterior motives somehow coincide with His purpose. Whatever that may be."

The third Director shook his head, dark hair falling across his face, and gestured toward the door. "Go home, Noin," he told her, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. "Get some sleep. You need it."

Noin chuckled. "You may be right. I don't understand what I'm saying, either." She stood and hefted her briefcase, its weight reminding her just how tired she was. "The bridge is yours, Amon. See you in a few weeks."


	2. In Which Mireille Has A Flashback, and T...

**Chapter The Second**

**In Which Mireille Has A Flashback, and The Wearing of Jabots is Admired**

Amon summoned the core group and waited for the operatives to gather in the control room. For once, Doujima was early, and as she flounced into a seat across the table, Amon was gripped by an unfamiliar twinge of nostalgia. Looking around the table, he could almost see the rest of his comrades… but of course they were still oblivious and Unaware, most likely continuing on under a new executive director. He wondered who had been promoted to fill Zaizen's position, and who was leading the team in his absence, and if Solomon had filled the other vacancies now that his partner and Doujima were gone. Like the rest of the Society's operatives, he was prohibited from making contact with his home world, but he had learned – as had many other homesick SPCFC operatives – that Doujima was not above bribery. She wouldn't tell him everything he asked; either her snooping skills had limits, or (more likely) she wasn't willing to risk giving him too much information. Doujima had reassured him, at least, about Touko; after the emotional breakdown, she had been retrieved by the Society and relocated to a peaceful, pseudomedieval world where she was happily married and raising a baby boy. Amon was glad that she was happy, but the thought of Touko with a child made his stomach wrench.

Priss came to the table, stirring sugar into a mug of black sludge. Amon sighed. What he wouldn't give for a cup of coffee from Harry's right now. Master made coffee like no one else could…

The rest of the crew trailed in, looking drained, as Noin had told him to expect. Most, like Priss, carried their dose of energy in thick mugs bearing the SPCFC logo; a few had café latte or espresso in paper cups. He would have to choose his personnel carefully; tired operatives made mistakes, and this case was delicate.

He glanced at the faces around the table. Priss looked tired, but alert. Mireille seemed fairly fresh; according to the week's reports, she hadn't done anything active in the past few days. Yorick was dangling his lips in his coffee, not quite awake. Doujima had propped her chin on one hand, and seemed to be drifting between daydreaming and dozing; after the matter with the _doujinshi_ circle, she could probably use the day off. Black's seat was empty; apparently he was still on hiatus. Amon made a mental note to ask Steed how long he would be gone. Alfred, used to long hours and short nights, was not only impeccably dressed in his claret-colored coat and breeches, but seemed completely awake. He was also, Amon noted, the only one to arrive without coffee. That was a good sign.

Wendy trotted in and took her place at the end of the table, pen poised over her steno pad. Even she carried a steaming cup of black tea in one hand; it seemed that caffeine was in high demand in every department. Amon raised his hand for attention and began the briefing.

"This case is a little more complex than your usual assignments," he said. "It will require precision work, and a very delicate retrieval with as little interference as possible. We have a major character who needs to be retrieved from a precarious environment. His home world was one of the better-constructed specimens, so we didn't foresee any problems with it. When the story closed, he was terminated by the creator; however, a second world was constructed that paralleled the first, with the purpose of filling in empty spaces in the original. The character was resurrected, but he is now trapped in limbo between the two worlds in an unstable Möbius storyline."

"Sounds like another case of prequel syndrome. Why is this one so delicate?" Doujima asked, opening one eye to glance at Amon.

Amon glanced down at the file before him, frowning. "It's not so simple as that. The coincidence of the two worlds has created an ephemeron. The character in question, as well as a few of his comrades from the home story, are suspended in this third world. It's extremely unstable, and it revolves around the personality we are targeting. Fortunately, he is a strong character, and thus far has managed to support the matrix by strength of will alone. Still, the entire world might cease to exist at any time, and we must terminate all passages into that matrix as soon as we remove him."

Several of the operatives blinked at him, uncomprehending. "Can you explain that again, in smaller words?" one asked.

Priss scooped up a stack of file folders and began distributing them. "It means that two worlds collided and made a bubble that wasn't supposed to exist. This guy is in the bubble, keeping it in one piece, but the bubble might pop at any time. As soon as we pull him out, it's our job to pop the bubble so nobody else gets stuck in it. Got it?"

There were nods around the table, and the quiet chatter was replaced with the rustling of papers as each operative flipped through the files. Amon gave them a moment to look over the case information before choosing his agents. He would ask for volunteers, as usual, but he knew that Yorick and Doujima were far too exhausted to be trusted under this kind of pressure. Priss almost never left headquarters on assignment, but in a special case he might be able to persuade her to assist the mission. That left only Alfred and—

"Let me do it," a feminine voice demanded, interrupting his thoughts. Mireille leaned over the table, half-raised from her seat. Her face was paler than usual, but her eyes burned with determination and… something else.

Amon's frown deepened; he had hoped to avoid this confrontation. "No. You're too emotionally involved in this matter, and this case is too sensitive to—"

Mireille pushed herself up from the table, her jaw clenched. "I'm not too involved to carry out orders. I can handle this assignment," she insisted, and her tone switched from argumentative to persuasive. "Besides, I'll have an advantage in this situation. I know this world, or at least I'm remembering it. And if he…" She faltered and tried again. "If the target doesn't believe us, or refuses to come with us, I'll have a better chance of convincing him."

Before Amon could answer, Doujima jumped in. "Mireille has a point," she said. "She might have an advantage, even if it's just that she's awake and the rest of us are done in. Who else would you send? We're awfully short-staffed right now," she added, trying to hide a yawn behind her loose blonde hair.

There was a moment of silence while Amon considered this. Another voice rose from the far end of the table. "If my service would be accepted," Alfred interjected, "I'd gladly accompany the lady on this errand. I don't think any one among us should attempt such a dangerous venture alone."

Amon looked hard at him, and at Mireille, and finally sighed in defeat. "I don't seem to have any other options," he conceded. "Time is short, so don't worry about arranging with Wardrobe for this one. Both of you, meet me at Transport in ten minutes for your instructions."

Mireille cast a grateful glance at Alfred, who sent her a smile and a courteous half-bow in return. She would have thanked Yurika as well, but it seemed the other blonde had finally dozed off on the table. Mireille escaped to the hallway and caught her breath before looking again at the file in her hands. It had been such a shock to her, seeing that face…

She found an empty seat in the rotunda and opened the file again, bracing herself for the flood of half-memory that assailed her whenever she looked at him. His face gazed blankly at her from the photograph, the mismatched eyes warm beneath the cool green-black of his perpetually tousled hair. It was, without a doubt, the same man who haunted her dreams – only now she had a name to attach to the face that drifted in her memories.

Spike Spiegel.

The second Director had explained to her, when she arrived, why she couldn't resume a normal life in another world. She had been pulled out of her own world when the creator had terminated her; her memory had been wiped, and she had been placed in another story. However, her memory wipe had not been perfect, and consequently she was haunted by flashbacks from her previous life. The SPCFC had realized this and retrieved her as soon as possible. By that time, it was too late to clear her memory again, and she had stayed on as an operative – a life she didn't mind, even if it wasn't her ideal climate.

But Noin hadn't given her specifics about her past – the only name she could remember was Mireille Bouquet, her latest identity. Who or what had she been before? Seeing Spike's face in the file had bridged some of the gaps in her memory, and for a moment in the control room she had been drenched in images from her previous life: A dimly-lit pool hall. A grey street corner. Cigarette smoke. And always, _always_ the man called Spike Spiegel. _His face, swathed in bandages, whispering… His face, sharing her pillow… His face, obscured by smoke and muzzle flash… His face, leaning over hers, telling her it was all just a dream…_

Mireille slammed the folder shut again as the memories threatened to smother her. It was all so incoherent, so disjointed. She tried to remember her childhood, her profession, her name, anything that didn't involve Spike's face – but it was clear that he was the key to everything. She had to find him before she could find the answers. For that she had to be involved in this case, and she had faced off with the Director to manage it. Still, had it not been for Yurika and Alfred's intervention, Amon would never have let her do it…

Mireille glanced at her watch – seven minutes remaining – and hurried to prepare for the mission. She would probably need a weapon, if her instincts were true; her own Walther was freshly cleaned and waiting for action in her locker. And it might be smart to make a quick clothing change, despite Amon's warning about speed. She jogged to Wardrobe, skimmed the racks and shimmied into a black jumpsuit that caught her eye. Not her customary style, perhaps, but for some reason it seemed prudent to wear something more covering than her usual miniskirt.

She arrived at the Transportal hall with less than a minute remaining, and pushed through the milling crowds of samurai and space aliens to reach the door where they were to meet. She dodged milling teams of security men in nondescript blue suits and sunglasses, and more than once she consciously arrested the movement as her hand reflexively jerked toward her gun. Her past life had taught her not to trust anyone in a nondescript business suit. Particularly blue suits. And especially wearing sunglasses. In her private revenge, she snagged a pair of black wraparounds from a passing guard and pushed them into her own hair, making an effective headband behind her bangs. It never hurt to be prepared.

Alfred was already waiting at the door, resplendent in his usual elegant wardrobe. He wore a coat of wine-colored velvet, soft doeskin breeches and leather boots that came above the knee. There was a bunch of lace at his chin, and he carried a French plumed hat under one arm. He was armed with a pair of pistols and a rapier, polished to twinkling. All in all, he cut quite a dashing figure. Mireille eyed the lace jabot and wondered, wistfully, if the style would ever come back into fashion.

Amon joined them then and gave them precise instructions. They were to make contact with the target, but avoid influencing the world in any way that was not absolutely necessary.

"In other words – don't touch anything," Mireille murmured, smiling.

Amon nodded. "This world's matrix is unstable enough without bringing in outside forces," he said. "Even the slightest alteration – talking to the wrong person, opening the wrong door – could alter the calibration. It might delay your return, or at worst, cause the entire world to implode, taking you and our target with it. Don't risk any unnecessary contact. And once you have him in custody, make sure you return immediately to the portal; the matrix will begin to disintegrate the moment he becomes Aware, and if you don't move quickly, you may not be able to return."

They nodded gravely, confirmed their orders, checked their weapons – and stepped through the door.


	3. In Which Alfred Pulls His Punches, and S...

**Chapter The Third**

**In Which Alfred Pulls His Punches, and Spike Sees A Ghost**

They stepped out onto a road, or something that had once looked like one. Chunks of broken pavement were strewn over uneven ground between dilapidated structures of scarred brick and jagged glass. It was just dusk, and the shattered highway reflected the sky's eerie red-grey glow. Far ahead and to one side, a faint yellow light glimmered against the drifting smog. Alfred donned his plumed hat and fingered the glittering hilt of his rapier. Beside him, Mireille checked the clip in her Walther and chambered a round.

"Something's coming," she murmured, and he nodded agreement. They rotated slowly, scanning the street before and behind, where the portal had been moments before. Nothing came out to meet them, and they began to move slowly in the direction of the yellow glow.

They had not gone more than half the length of a city block when the attack came, in the form of a mob of disorganized miscreants lurching out from a dark alleyway. Mireille dropped three of them at the curbside with as many bullets, ducked under the wide swing of a fourth and grounded him with a vicious uppercut, and tripped a fifth with one stylish black boot around his ankle. She kept the gun on him as he fell in the gutter, but he lay still.

Alfred had charged into the fray with rapier drawn, but quickly realized that such an out put of energy wasn't necessary. Instead, he brought the hilt down on the head of the first thug, knocking him senseless, then sheathed the sword and used his fists, tapping each one across the jaw until they all lay still on the pavement. When the entire mob was downed, he and Mireille turned to each other in surprise.

"What was that supposed to be?" She asked, looking around at the fallen heavies. "They practically knocked themselves out. Some welcoming committee…"

"Let us hope that the rest of our journey is as painless," Alfred said, turning to face the yellow glow in the distance. "And let us not forget the Director's warning – we mustn't involve ourselves with anything other than retrieving our target."

They continued on, twice more defending themselves against unprovoked street attacks. Again and again, the thugs fell with a single blow; Mireille conserved her bullets and began using her hands and feet. Alfred, likewise, didn't bother to draw his weapons when they were attacked. After the third fight, Mireille realized what bothered her most – not that they fell so easily, but that it was the same group, over and over. Their faces and clothes didn't change; rather, it seemed that the group simply moved to a new location every few minutes to ambush the intruders.

The sky had not changed by the time they reached the edge of the circle of the yellow light. At last they could see the source of the glow: A flickering neon sign advertising the "Loser Bar" spread its sickly glimmer around the square, illuminating the faces of the empty buildings and throwing the alleys into total darkness. The bar's large picture window was smeared with grime and dotted with bullet holes. Inside, they could see a pinball machine that seemed to have shared the same fate as the window, and a few empty tables. The rest of the interior was too dimly lit to be seen from the outside.

Mireille glanced at Alfred's conspicuous clothing, then at her own rather flashy leather jumpsuit, and flipped a mental coin. "I'll go in first," she told him. "You cover me."

Alfred nodded and drew one of his pistols. Mireille stepped through the door and paused while her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. There were very few patrons in the bar. The bartender glanced her over, then went back to wiping the counter with a rag that looked far dirtier than the spot he was cleaning. A handful of drinkers nursing their glasses at the bar didn't spare her a look.

After a cursory glance, Mireille spotted her target in the back corner of the bar, slouched over a table with an empty glass in front of him. Her throat tightened immediately, and she had to steady herself against a barstool as a wave of memories washed over her again. _A graveyard, and rain, and running, so much running… _She gradually became aware of the bartender staring at her, and Alfred gripping her shoulder, his voice urgent in her ear. She shook her head to clear the images and made for the table in the corner. Alfred followed a few feet behind.

Spike's eyes were glazed as he contemplated the dust settling on the rim of his glass. Something seemed very wrong; this blank expression did not match the wry grin he had worn in the file photograph and in her own hazy memories. Mireille wondered how long he'd been sitting here. Could he have been this way since the formation of this limbo world? Before she could approach him, Alfred circled the table and bent close to Spike, speaking to him quietly. Spike lifted his head and eyed Alfred more sharply than she would have expected, given his near-catatonic state a moment before.

"To where?" she heard Spike ask. Alfred glanced around the bar, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. He pulled out a chair and sat across from Spike.

"This is not where you belong, sir," he explained quickly. "This world is made only of fragments of your memory. We have come to retrieve you and take you to a place more appropriate for…"

Spike shook his head. "I can't leave while he's still here. I have to face him, to prove… that I'm… that…" His eyes began to glaze again.

Alfred and Mireille exchanged worried glances, and Alfred turned back to Spike. "Who else is here?" he asked urgently. "If there is someone else that we must take with us…"

Spike jerked to alertness again. "No!" His voice was rough, strained. "No, he has to be destroyed. I have to finish him. He's hunting me, and I'm hunting him. It won't stop until one of us dies. It will never stop…" He faded again.

Mireille looked at her watch. They were short on time, after the unexpected street fights, and Spike wasn't showing any signs of mobility. They needed to speed things up, but she was wary of rushing him and bringing the world down around their ears. Maybe she could simply talk him into going with her, as she'd told Amon she could. She took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Spike…"

His head snapped around, his mismatched eyes met her blue ones and widened in shock, and suddenly she was frozen. She watched his lips formed one silent word – _Julia –_ and memory washed over her like an icy waterfall…

…_he was bleeding, and she was lifting him from the sidewalk, bandaging his wounds, singing to him, trying to explain to Vicious why there was another in her bed, but he wouldn't understand, he never understood, and she wanted to go with Spike, but Vicious put a choice before her, her life or Spike's, and she chose to live, and he left her to fly to the stars, and they never forgave her…_

It was Alfred's voice, once again, that cut into her mind and pulled her out of the memories. She gripped the back of a chair, shaking, and broke her gaze away from Spike's eyes. Alfred was beside her, watching her face with alarm. She shook her head and pushed him away.

Spike was still watching her in shock and disbelief, finally broken from his inertia. She stepped beside his chair, once more in control of herself. She would convince him to follow her, she must… But before she could speak one of his arms had circled her waist and pulled her close. He whispered the name of the woman she had been – _Julia, Julia_ – and she was unable to resist. Fighting the memories again, she curled her arms around his neck and bent close to him, her hair falling over his shoulder. The embrace was warm and tempting, but behind her Alfred discreetly cleared his throat. "We have to go," she whispered to Spike, pulling away. "Now."

It seemed Spike was ready to follow them anywhere, now that he'd seen his Julia. They flanked him and left the bar, making for the empty street on which they'd entered. It was still just dusk – it seemed to be perpetually dusk, in this twilight world – and they felt the ground tremble as they headed for the highway.


	4. In Which Vicious Gets The Cold Shoulder,...

**Chapter The Fourth:**

**In Which Vicious Gets The Cold Shoulder, and Amon Takes The Plunge**

Amon dropped the headset and turned back to the bank of monitors. "I still can't raise them," he growled. This mission seemed to have been spiraling steadily out of their control since the start, and now communications had gone down as well. "They need to hurry. The matrix is becoming unstable, and if this interference keeps up we won't even be able to monitor them from here."

"There does seem to be a lot of static, sir," Wendy offered uncertainly. Technology wasn't her strong suit. "Would you like me to have someone check the connection?"

Amon shook his head, his eyes fixed on the monitor. "This interference isn't from a bad connection," he murmured. "It's almost… I'm not sure how to classify it. It seems to be coming from an outside source."

Wendy leaned closer, staring intently at the screen. "Sir… Do you suppose it could be some sort of deliberate interference?"

Amon turned to look at her, surprised. "That's one theory. Deliberate, you say?"

"It could be an accident, but no matter how I look at it, it seems like someone is jamming our signal."

Amon's eyes widened in alarm, and he swung back to the monitors. "Deliberate jamming," he said, working furiously at the controls, "or unintentional interference from their own signal…"

Wendy looked confused. "Sir?"

Amon's jaw tightened as he skimmed the readouts. "I don't think we're the only ones visiting the neighborhood today," he answered. "We may have to deal with more interference than we think."

---

"You'll be left here, you know."

Vicious half turned his head at the sound, and his hand crept to the hilt of the katana propped against his shoulder. He had heard no one approach; yet the voice had come, unmistakably, from the platform behind him. He had been seated on the altar steps, watching the deserted sanctuary for… hours? days? and his solitude had been perfect – but now he could clearly hear footsteps on the dais. The sound echoed around the empty cathedral, teasing his ears. He hesitated a heartbeat, then leapt up, whirled and drew his sword in one swift motion.

Instead of challenging the unwelcome visitor face to face, Vicious found himself staring at the man's unmoving back. Rainbows of light from the high rose window played over a wealth of silver hair as the stranger examined the elaborate gilded screen behind the altar. Vicious held his position, waiting for the man to make the next move.

A tremor of disturbed laughter sounded from the transept, and Vicious spun again, off guard. It took him a moment to locate the source of the sound; he finally spotted, in a recessed chapel, a young man – hardly more than a boy – toying with the votives, tipping them to watch the wax and flame play.

"They're taking him away, and you'll be left to waste away with this world." The soft words echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, and Vicious turned back to the man nearest him. The voice was smooth and feline, but the tone was indifferent and almost casual. The stranger finally turned away from the screen, and Vicious eyed him with reasonable suspicion.

He was uncommonly tall, with a sheet of silver-grey hair that fell below his knees. His features were delicate enough to seem feminine, but the broad shoulders and muscular chest more than compensated for the softness of face. The eyes were the most arresting feature; they were wide-set and slanted, a striking blue-green color, and they burned with an abnormal brightness. The man was shirtless, but wore a long black coat finished with leather straps and what appeared to be armored plates. He was also, Vicious noted for the first time, carrying an _impossibly_ long sword.

Another ripple of laughter came from the transept. The man flicked his head to the side. "Leave the candles, Dilandau," he called. "We don't want to burn the church down, yet." The boy, called to heel by his master, slunk to the front and amused himself by poking at the faces of the saints in the altarpiece.

Vicious lowered his katana, but did not sheathe it. The silver-haired man chuckled and dropped a meaningful glance toward his own naked weapon, which seemed by Vicious' reckoning to be longer than the man was tall. Vicious could see that his usual method of staring down and intimidating his opponents was not going to be useful here.

"What do you want?" he ventured at last, disliking the heavy silence more than having to speak first.

The stranger chided him with a soft _tsk, tsk_. "So hasty. And no time for introductions, either. I can see that we're going to have to work on that." Anger surged in Vicious' chest, and he started to lunge forward – but before he could slash the man in half, the stranger fixed him with his brilliant blue-green eyes. Vicious felt ice prickle through his body, paralyzing his limbs and sealing his feet to the floor. He struggled, but it was futile – even his fingers were frozen fast.

"Far, far too hasty," murmured the stranger, circling Vicious' motionless body, still gazing at him with those radiating eyes. Were they glowing, or was it just light from the stained glass? "If we're to work together, I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more civil. That means _not_ trying to kill me, in case you were wondering."

_Work together?_ Vicious' mouth was frozen shut, but the stranger answered as if he'd spoken the words aloud. "Exactly. You see, I believe I could use someone of your particular… shall we say talents? in my organization. And though you don't like the idea, you do need me. I am the only one who can free you from this place. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to disintegrate with the matrix and float in interphase space for eternity." The stranger stopped directly in Vicious' immovable line of sight and looked him in the eyes. "Shall we continue as we are? Or would you rather discuss the matter more civilly?"

Vicious' mind burned inside his frozen body. At last, weighing his odds, he chose the only reasonable path he could see. _I'm listening_, he thought.

The stranger smiled – a sadistic twist of the lips – and turned away. Vicious fell to his knees, suddenly free of the ice. His hands were shaking too badly to grip his sword, and he turned his face to the other man with a mixture of hatred and awe.

"I'm glad we could come to an understanding," the stranger purred in his low, seductive voice. "Now listen carefully; for as much as I'd enjoy prattling with you all night, we really haven't much time."

---

Amon pushed away from the monitor, cursing under his breath. "Call Transport and have them prepare a portal," he growled at Wendy. "I'm going in after them."

Wendy jumped to the communications panel and sent the alert, then trotted after him as he stormed out of the room. "Sir? What's happening?"

"The matrix is starting to go," he answered, without looking back. "Probably because of that outside interference. Call Doujima and have her meet me at the portal." Wendy turned back to make the call, but she heard him continue quietly to himself. "They don't stand a chance if they can't even see them coming…"

---

Vicious stood in the narthex, gazing back at his sanctuary. The red dusk cast a fiery light through the high windows, blending even the bright hues of the stained glass into a hot glow that washed over the pews. The stranger, too, was bathed in red as he stood before the altar. Vicious watched as the man bowed his head as if in prayer before the marble _piet_. An instant later the long sword flashed, and the statue fell in pieces around him. An eerie laugh echoed through the cathedral as the silver-haired man turned and strode back to the narthex, his shadow swirling around him in the flame-colored light. He paused beside Vicious, and there was a moment of absolute silence in the church.

"I'll go with you," Vicious said finally, gazing at his sheathed katana. "But there is one thing I must do before I leave."

The stranger nodded. "We must move quickly," he said by way of an answer. "They're almost to the exit. Dilandau!"

The boy's deranged cackle could again be heard from the transept, and after a moment he trotted up the aisle to join them. He seemed supremely pleased with himself.

"Did you finish?" the stranger asked the young man with an almost paternal interest. Dilandau nodded enthusiastically and began peeling wax off of his fingertips.

As the trio passed through the grand arched doors to the street, the building behind them erupted into flames.

---

Amon checked the clip in his gun, reassuring himself that the bullets were real. He had not used Orbo since becoming Aware; aside from having no effect on normal humans, the liquid-filled cartridges would be useless outside the world where they had been created. Even so, he had used a gun so rarely since becoming Director that the feel of the smaller, lighter weapon was unfamiliar in his hand.

He secured the gun in his shoulder holster – some habits would never change – and turned at the sound of running footsteps. Doujima was tapping down the hallway, her stylish boots slipping a little with each step. She braced her legs and skidded to a stop just short of where he was standing.

"What's going on?" she panted, winded from the sprint. "They told me it was an emergency. Has something happened?"

"Not yet," he answered soberly. "I want you to stand by here. Wait for me to contact you before taking any definite action. You probably won't be called in, but I want backup ready in case something happens to me. Although, if it comes to that, you'll have to seal the portal quickly and quarantine the connection."

"Do you think something will try to get through?"

He frowned. "I picked up some unusual interference," he said. "Enough to make me think there are other interlopers involved. I don't know if they're intending good or ill, but it's making the entire matrix extremely unsteady." He glanced at a digital readout above the portal. "I don't have time to explain it all now. Wait here; I'm going in."

Doujima felt for her own weapon as he disappeared through the doorway. "Be careful," she breathed, watching the portal grow blank again. "Bring them back quickly."


	5. In Which Mireille Remembers Death, and A...

**Chapter The Fifth**

_In Which Mireille Remembers Death, and Alfred Revisits It_

As they walked, Alfred paused every few minutes to glance over his shoulder at the sky. "It seems to be getting dark at last," he commented uneasily. Mireille – _or was she Julia now?_ – stepped closer to their charge and checked the clip in her Walther. No matter how she looked at it, the creeping darkness could not be a good sign after the endless twilight of before. She wished she'd had more time to research this world's structure before the mission. Could the visible end of the day be a metaphorical reflection of the breakdown of the support matrix?

Alfred seemed to be having similar thoughts. "It could be peripheral disruption, now that the host is Aware," he mused out loud, glancing at the horizon again. "Or possibly the influence of the interphase vacuum, since this world's shell is so fragile. If the latter is the case, we should make all haste to the portal before the fluctuation reaches an intolerable level."

Spike gave Alfred a long, suspicious glance, and Mireille suppressed a chuckle. It did seem rather incongruous for someone dressed in eighteenth-century riding garb to be using such complicated technical language. Not that Spike would be able to understand the jargon anyway.

Alfred turned to check the sky again, but this time uttered a cry of alarm. Mireille and Spike whirled to scan the dead cityscape behind them. The horizon was nearly dark, but beyond the place where they'd found the bar the sky was a roiling inferno. Flames towered over the empty buildings in the distance, and a dull roar reached their ears as the fire began to consume the city.

Spike tensed, apparently sensing something she could not. "He's coming," he whispered, more to himself than for their ears. Then, with a look of dawning realization, he turned to look at Mireille. He seemed to consider something, his face taut with intense concentration. Apparently he reached a decision, because the wry, lopsided grin he'd worn in the photograph suddenly appeared on his face.

"If I'm dead, I can always find out," he said, inexplicably, "but if I'm alive, I'd better stay that way until I know for sure whether I am or not. Now that you're here, I can figure it out for certain."

Mireille stared at him blankly, vaguely aware that he had just reached some important turning point. Apparently whatever he'd said was supposed to be meaningful to her. Would it mean something if she had the rest of Julia's memories, perhaps? But he was still smiling at her, waiting for agreement, approval, affirmation, _something_… She smiled back and took his hand encouragingly, which seemed to be the appropriate response. Mireille wondered what on earth she was supposed to help him figure out, and whether it had to be done before they reached the portal.

A gunshot shattered the quiet of the street, just a few feet from her ear, and she instinctively threw herself to the ground and rolled before realizing that the sound came from Alfred's pistol. She spotted the band of street brawlers coming toward them again. Alfred's shot had taken down one of the leaders, but there were nearly a dozen more approaching. She shouted a warning to Spike, hoping he hadn't been temporarily deafened by the shot as she had, and swung halfheartedly at the first thug.

To her surprise, her left hook didn't floor her opponent – and more, it didn't even turn his head. The man chuckled at the weak punch and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her just enough to break her leverage. He hadn't seen her gun, though, and she put a bullet through his shoulder before she could break his grip and drop to the ground. It took three more bullets to remove the next two toughs, and she took advantage of the few extra seconds to look for her comrades.

"What's going on?" she shouted to Alfred over the sounds of the scuffle. Her hearing was starting to return, but she didn't know if his was recovered. "They're putting up a real fight this time!"

Alfred used his other pistol charge to finish the heavy he was fighting, and reached for his dagger to ward off the next attack. "Take Spike and run for the portal," he called back, dodging a wicked-looking right cross. "Our time is running short!"

Mireille kicked the legs out from under her next attacker and charged forward. Spike was a little distance up the highway, holding his own against the main group of thugs. She shot two of the fighters, but by the time she had taken aim on a third he had kayoed the last of his opponents. Belatedly she remembered that the mission file had mentioned his proficiency in martial arts.

Alfred caught up to them and they began to run, but they had gone hardly a block more when another gang attacked them. This time Mireille emptied her clip into the crowd, and while she reloaded Spike took out the rest with a few swift kicks and punches.

They dashed forward again. A block later, the same street thugs reappeared. Alfred cursed as they fought through the gang. "We haven't time for this," he shouted over the din. "The portal won't last much longer!"

They finished the fight and sprinted until their lungs burned, and at last they could see the portal wavering ahead on the highway. The moment it appeared, a wave of power washed over them from behind, knocking them to the ground. Mireille choked on the dust of the road and rolled to her knees, coughing, searching for Spike in the half-darkness. She saw him a few feet to the side, his eyes riveted to the road behind them. She followed his gaze and saw three silhouettes outlined against the glow of the burning city. One advanced toward Spike and slowly drew a sword, the blade gleaming red. As he neared them she could make out his face, and the ghost of memory supplied her with a name.

"Vicious," she whispered, making a connection, and her mind reeled under the tangle of emotions that came with the word.

The man with the sword stared down at her for a moment. He seemed vaguely disturbed by her presence, but his face was impassive. "Then I shall have to kill you as well, I suppose," he said finally, and his lips thawed enough to curl into a sneer. "But at least you'll die together. Sweet sorrow, and sweeter revenge."

- - -

Amon stepped out on the dark highway and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim twilight. Far ahead the sky was orange with flame; it seemed the entire city was burning. Looking up, he could see uneven patches in the red sky where the edges of the world's matrix were beginning to fray. Beyond the side of the road the scenery was blurred, and behind him the visible edge of the portal rippled and warped in the air. He hoped he hadn't come too late.

He heard voices nearby, and he squinted along the road until he could see the moving shadows. Three figures appeared to be standing in the road, with three more lying on the pavement before them. There were at least two swords visible, both in the hands of the standing group. He knew his agents weren't carrying swords.__

Amon bit back an obscenity and palmed his communicator. "Stand by, Doujima," he muttered into the radio. "It looks like they've already made contact." The only answer was a burst of static, and too late he remembered his own failed attempts to contact Alfred. He drew his weapon and started toward the group on the road, hoping his agents were unharmed.

Ahead he saw one of the figures, katana in hand, advance toward the shadows on the ground. Amon squeezed off two shots, creasing the pavement in front of the man's feet to slow him down. The man with the sword recoiled, and the shadows – definitely his agents, he was close enough to see now – scrambled away, but they gained only a few strides before Mireille fell again. Alfred hesitated, halfway between the group and the portal, and looked back to his comrades. The man with the katana started toward Spike and Mireille.

Amon's instincts urged him to take down the pursuers, but reason warned that he couldn't aim to kill when he didn't even know at whom – or at what – he was shooting. He fired again, deliberately wide of the target, hoping at least to buy his agents enough time to reach the portal.

The man with the katana paused to look for the source of the shots, but Mireille remained huddled on the ground, Spike beside her. Alfred glanced between them and the portal, indecisive. His gaze met Amon's, an instant that seemed to last for hours. Then Alfred dipped his head in the ghost of a bow, and smiled.

With a mad, haunting cry Alfred turned and charged their attackers, his rapier brandished high.

For a brief moment Amon was frozen, unseeing, unmoving. Then Mireille screamed and the sound split the air, breaking him out of his shock. He dashed forward, gun in hand, but he knew he was already too late.

- - -

Vicious started toward them, his katana raised. She could not remember when she had seen him so ruthless, so bloodthirsty. He was so different now than he had been at first. Was it possible that she had ever loved this man?

Love him? But she didn't even know him. Did she?

Gunshots sounded from somewhere behind her and carved grooves at Vicious' feet. Shards of pavement sprayed her face, and she rolled away.

In something like a dream Spike pulled her to her feet and together they ran, fleeing the death that followed them. The portal was ahead, but it flickered in and out like static on a video screen. Another wave of power buffeted them from behind, and she stumbled and struck the pavement. Spike turned back to her, his eyes haunted by something out of the past, and as she met his gaze the memories took her again…

_…but he knew, and he came back for her, and together they ran, though the Dragons were chasing them forever, and there were so many bullets, and she ran and ran with him until she fell, and birds, so many birds, frightened by the gunshots and flying away like her last breath, and he was bending over her and…_

_…It was all just a dream, wasn't it?_

A scream wrenched her body as she watched herself die, and the nightmare dragged her deeper and deeper until something massive and dark seized her body. She struggled, fought against the strong grip until Amon's voice tore through the terror. She came back to herself – her face was buried in Amon's black overcoat, she realized, and the arms lifting her from the ground were his. The Director's dark hair whipped around his face as he ran, carrying her, shouting orders that she didn't hear. She squirmed against his hold, trying to reach the ground. Why was he taking her away? She wanted to turn back, to find Spike, to find Alfred, to fight with them—

Amon all but threw her through the portal, and before she could turn to charge back into Spike's world, she found herself in a familiar white hallway with Yurika's arms around her shoulders.

- - -

Alfred charged, and the man with the katana dodged to the side, expecting an attack. Instead, Alfred plunged past him, driving straight for the two men who stood impassively on the sidelines. One of them, a boy who couldn't have been more than a teenager, shrieked and danced to the side, clutching his face and screeching inarticulately.

Amon pushed Spike through the portal and turned back, his heart and mind racing. He watched, too far away to interfere, as Alfred raised his arm and plunged toward his target. The man with the long silver hair did not move as Alfred approached, and as the rapier drove toward his bare chest he lifted his own arm almost leisurely. In his hand, Amon saw with growing horror, he held a very long sword.

Alfred's rapier snapped as the cutting blade slashed upward, and the tip of the long sword swept his chest. Alfred reached for his dagger to attack under the arc of the blade, but before he could draw the weapon the silver-haired man's fingers closed on his throat. Alfred's body dangled limp from the gloved hand.

Amon tried to raise his gun, tried to scream, to stop the nightmare in any way, but that peculiar stillness again held his body in check. He watched, infuriatingly helpless, as the silver-haired man put his palm flat against Alfred's chest.

The man with the katana stepped back.

The boy danced and cackled.

The silver-haired man turned deliberately toward the portal. His eyes met Amon's.

And he laughed.

A bolt of white-hot light seared the night, blinding Amon and scorching the street. Alfred's body was hurled away from the man who had summoned the blast, and even the interminable giggles of the boy turned into long shrieks while the light rumbled through the air. The explosion rocked the fabric of the world, and the empty patches in the sky ripped into gaping holes. The city began to disappear, building by building. Amon felt the force of the vacuum buffet him through the weak places in the matrix.

"I believe," the silver-haired man said smoothly, "that it is time for our exit. Come." The three turned as one and dissipated, vanishing like mist without so much as an open portal.

Amon tore his eyes away from the fading figures and cast about for Alfred, knowing what he'd find but not willing to believe it. He was easy to spot; his wine-red coat stood out even in the gloom of the deepening twilight. He lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat still incongruously spotless against the dark fabric. A ragged tear extended from one shoulder across his chest, and the fabric was singed black from the infernal blast. His eyes were open, but empty.

Amon broke out of shocked immobility and lunged forward, but behind him voices screamed his name. He whirled and saw the portal warping and fading, knew the calibration was failing as the matrix disintegrated. He dashed toward it and lunged through the door just as the ground faded beneath his feet.


	6. In Which Noin Fails To Recall A Shoe Siz...

**Chapter The Sixth:**

**In Which Noin Fails To Recall A Shoe Size, and Amon Ponders An Act Of War**

Amon glared hard at his desk, not looking up to meet Mireille's eyes. It was several minutes before he felt he was controlled enough to address her. When he did speak, it was with a dark voice that barely squeezed past his tight jaw.

"I'm not going to ask what happened in there," he said, still looking at nothing on his desk, "because it doesn't matter now. But we lost an excellent operative tonight, and I do not want anything like this happening again.

"I blame myself, because it went against my better judgment to put you in this situation at all, but I let myself be talked into it. Even so, I had faith that you would be capable of setting aside your personal involvement for this case and remain dedicated to the purpose of your visit. Apparently I overestimated your capacity for indifference, and for that too I take responsibility." He held up a hand to stay her protest. "No matter how physically or emotionally involved you may be, it is imperative that you stay focused. The mission _must_ come first. If you can't meet that demand, then you will be relieved of your duty and placed in a position where the safety of your fellow operatives is not dependent on your decisionmaking."

He finally wrenched his gaze away from his desk and turned his face to meet hers. This would hurt more than any verbal lashing he could give, but he had to tell her. "Alfred also became emotionally involved in this case," he said, "albeit in a way we couldn't have predicted. He gave his life, not for the mission, but because he wanted to protect you. Had it not been for his sacrifice, everything – the mission, our lives – would have been lost." Amon fell silent, his gaze still boring into hers.

Mireille's eyes glistened with tears, but she did not look away. "Is there anything we can do?" she whispered. "Surely he isn't gone forever… Can't we get him back? Could he be placed in a new location, like I was?"

Amon shook his head. "I don't know," he said flatly. "This is out of our control. We didn't have charge of him when he died. Furthermore, it wasn't in his own story; it was in a world that no longer exists. The continuity is irreparable."

Mireille excused herself and escaped to the hallway, and sounds of muffled sobbing retreated down the corridor. Amon buried his face in his hands, hiding his own burning eyes.

_How could he have let this happen?_

_---_

Noin was prepared to tear into Amon for calling her back to headquarters the morning of her first day off, but she abandoned any hard feelings the moment she walked into his office.

"You look terrible," she told him as soon as she saw him. "What happened yesterday?"

Amon raised bloodshot and shadowed eyes to her. "Quite a bit. Most notably, the death of one of our agents."

Noin sank into a chair, body tense, eyes wide. "When you say 'death'…"

Amon nodded and rubbed his eyes. "Irretrievable. I contacted Steed, who said he'd petition a higher authority, but I don't know if He has that kind of power."

Noin couldn't voice the question, but Amon understood. "Alfred," he said quietly. Noin fought a surge of mixed emotions – but surprisingly her sorrow and anger over Alfred's loss was overwhelmed by her sympathy for Amon, who was clearly blaming himself for whatever had happened. Her own words returned to her: _My soldiers are not trained to die. Battles that risk lives are miscalculations_. She knew her fellow Director believed the same, and she had experienced the limitless pain of self-reproach.

"The truth is…" Amon interrupted her thoughts. "I asked you to come in for a different reason." Noin looked at his face again, and saw the uncertainty in the purple-rimmed eyes. "I know I have no right to ask this, but I think it might be important." He took a breath, watching her, apologizing silently. "Tell me about him… this person you're looking for."

It took a moment for Noin to recover from the whiplash of hearing the tragic news and then being questioned about her non-Society activities; when she did, she was angry, but the pain in Amon's face eased her back to civility. She was silent for a few minutes, collecting her thoughts. Even if it did violate the trust of their unspoken arrangement, there could be little harm in giving Amon a bit of factual information.

"He was my partner," she said quietly. "He was lost when my own world fell apart."

"What does he look like?" Amon asked. That surprised her; she had expected questions about their relationship, or her intent once she found him.

"He's tall, about six-foot-one. Blue eyes, delicate features. And very pale blond hair, almost white. He typically wore—" she caught herself, "—wears his hair long, down to the waist." He was still out there, she _knew_ it, she had to keep thinking of him in terms of the present if she was to find him…

Amon was frowning deeply. "Any outstanding characteristics? Does he favor any particular kind of weapon?"

Noin had no idea where this was going, but her patience was nearly expired after the emotional shock of the morning. The words rushed out in her irritation. "He's a brilliant tactician, he loves to read, and he plays an excellent game of chess. When we were young, his preferred MS was the Leo, but then he surpassed that and used the Tallgeese, and later advanced to the Gundam Epyon." She saw Amon's blank look; his world must have been devoid of Mobile Suits. "But since all of those have been destroyed, I don't know what he'd be using now. He uses a pistol or a nine-millimeter when necessary, but he doesn't normally carry a gun. I'm the expert marksman, so he generally left that to me. Any other questions? I'm afraid I don't know his shoe size."

Amon shook his head. "I'm sorry; I don't mean to pry. I saw someone that I thought might be the person you were looking for… but I must have been mistaken."

---

Amon watched as Noin left, looking more despondent than he'd thought possible for someone with such a strong character. She had been justifiably angry at his questioning, but he had seen the flash of hope kindle in her eyes – and then watched it die as quickly when he told her it wasn't the man she wanted. He was sorry he'd brought it up, especially coming on the heels of the news about Alfred; the double shock must have been devastating. Despite her attempts to answer his questions indifferently, he could see how desperately Noin wanted to find her partner. She lived day to day on the hope that something might lead her to the person she sought. Amon understood better than she could imagine; he had lived on the same hope since joining the SPCFC.

What disturbed him even more was the thought that he might _not _have been mistaken about the stranger's identity. Noin had not mentioned any kind of sword, which gave him hope. Still, the man he'd watched slaughter Alfred had been tall, with long pale hair and piercing blue eyes. There were a dozen similar men he could name from as many different worlds, but all of those were known and accounted for… and this one was clearly a lost or rogue character, capable of traveling in worlds that were not his own. In the history of the SPCFC there had only been a few such cases in which a character was not bound to any world in particular, but Amon didn't know of any besides Black who could travel between worlds without the Society's technology. This silver-haired stranger seemed to have broken any ties to his home world, if he had one.

And apparently he was amassing a private militia. That was problematic in itself, but coupled with the fact that he seemed to have powers beyond those of the Society's operatives, it became potentially devastating. The resources of the SPCFC were strained enough without the possibility of facing an all-out conflict with another organization.

They had suspected, before the fire, that they were not alone in their ability to travel between worlds, removing characters and making changes when necessary. There had been evidence all along that there was another source of outside interference, though they hadn't known if it came from an individual or a competing organization. Then a rescue attempt had gone horribly wrong, the unstable split-personality subject had escaped, and an entire wing of the SPCFC headquarters had been destroyed in the catastrophic fire that ensued. It had been clear then that the subject – a boy named Dilandau, at that moment – had escaped with help from the outside. Amon was certain that the boy involved in that case was the same one he'd seen tonight, standing beside the white-haired man with the impossibly long sword.

Still, he didn't know anything of their motives or their intent. It was possible that the devastating events were the result of some sort of miscommunication, and with a little rectification the two organizations could coexist peacefully, or even cooperate.

But after Alfred's murder it seemed, at best, unlikely.


	7. In Which The Gods Are Fickle, and Cousin...

**Chapter The Seventh:**

**In Which The Gods Are Fickle, and Cousin Brad Comes To Visit**

The two men faced each other with perfect cordiality. The small table was set for tea, and although each had stirred his cup appropriately anti-clockwise and sipped it politely throughout the discussion, the trays of scones and tiny sweets had not been touched. Their conversation was casual, but an atmosphere of repressed formality had settled across the patio.

"You see my difficulty," said one, setting down his teacup. He was smiling handsomely, but the tanned face was not as relaxed as it might have been, and there was the faintest furrow between the dark brows. His intense blue eyes were fixed on the man across the table, expectant but not demanding.

The other man did not answer, but sipped his tea slowly. Finally, he tilted the honey-colored bangs out of his own blue eyes and returned the gaze. "What you're asking is a little out of the ordinary," he answered. "It's not often that we interfere so conspicuously, even for our own purposes."

The first man nodded. "I'm aware of your reluctance to become involved," he said, "and it is not an unfounded concern. But I also know that I'm not proposing anything that's out of your power. The poor chap has died twice now, not to mention spending half a lifetime as a ghost, and it seems he ought to have a chance at a regular life.

"Besides that," he added, an adventurous gleam in his eyes, "I thought it seemed rather like something you might enjoy. I regret that I can't go myself; it could be quite diverting – tampering with Fate, and all that." He smiled mischievously.

The lighter-haired man returned the smile and leaned forward, examining the tray of sweets before him. He selected a dainty chocolate and nibbled a corner thoughtfully. "I think I will have a chat with the Norns," he said at last. "After all, this fellow has already been dead long enough, I think. I'll see what can be done for him." He fingered the serviette beside his plate. Each napkin was detailed with a little stick-figure in the corner – an odd monogram, but distinctive.

The light-haired man rose from his chair. "But you probably shouldn't expect that sort of thing on a regular basis. We're always changing our minds, you know." He tipped his head and winked, picture perfect. "May I take this, as a souvenir?" he asked, indicating the napkin.

His host stood as well, clearly pleased. "By all means. Take as many as you like."

"Thank you. The tea was delicious," the guest added, and left the patio.

---

The horse's hooves padded a dusty rhythm on the dry road. Just ahead, the man who had introduced himself as his cousin Bart whistled a cheery tune as he swayed with the horse's gait. They had been riding for… he couldn't remember how long, but he was already counting the minutes until they arrived in town and could find a decent saloon. He pushed back the wide-brimmed hat and ran a hand through his thick moss-colored hair. It was damp with sweat, and the humidity was making it fluff up more than usual. Or maybe it was always fluffy; he couldn't seem to remember. How long _had_ he been riding, anyway?

Cousin Bart turned in his saddle. "We'll reach the town of Snakeshoot in another couple of miles," he said. "I know you're not used to riding much, but try to hold out a little longer. We'll meet up with everyone in town and stay the night there."

Half an hour later, they tied their horses at the post outside Snakeshoot's one decent-looking hotel. Bart ushered him inside, and when they reached the sitting room he was immediately steered toward a group of men playing poker around a table. Bart greeted them enthusiastically.

"Brother Bret, brother Brent, cousin Beau, cousin Ben, I'd like you to meet cousin Brad. He's just arrived from the east, and Pappy's asked us to educate him in the gentlemanly art of playing cards. Cousin Brad, let me introduce you – this is my brother Bret Maverick, my younger brother Brent Maverick, our cousin Beau Maverick – don't let the accent fool you; he just grew up in England – and his son Ben Maverick. Young Ben will be leaving for Harvard in a few days."

Cousin Brad shifted a little uncomfortably in his boots as everyone greeted him. He couldn't remember ever wanting to make a career out of playing poker, but that seemed to be the honorable family tradition – and from the look of the men before him, it was quite a profitable pursuit. Maybe the life of a professional card player was nicer than it sounded.

He and cousin Bart drew up chairs, and cousin Bret dealt them in for the next game.

---

Doujima and Priss turned away from the monitor as the man formerly called Spike lay down a royal flush. Mireille was standing a short distance behind them.

"Are you sure you don't want to go with him?" Doujima asked softly. "We can still find a place for you in that world, if you want to go."

Mireille shook her head, her long blonde hair partially obscuring her face. "I don't remember much of our past together," she said, "but what I do remember was anything but peaceful. His last life was full of so much violence and stress… I think he needs some time to recover from that." She didn't say more, but Doujima and Priss exchanged knowing glances. Mireille had confided her nightmarish memories of death to them, and they knew that she, more than Spike, needed the time to forget. Spike, at least, had the advantage of starting over with a blank memory.

"Well," Priss volunteered suddenly, breaking the gloomy silence that had settled over the group, "it's been a long, hectic day. I think I'm going to hit the bar on the way home. Anyone want to come along for a little cool-down?"

Mireille smiled faintly and shook her head. "I'm not in much of a mood to drink right now," she murmured. Priss glanced at Doujima and shrugged, asking for another suggestion. Neither wanted to leave Mireille alone when she was this depressed.

"Then you and I will have coffee," Doujima announced, taking Mireille by the arm. "And maybe a slab of fudge cake to go with it. Should we split it two or three ways?"

Priss took Mireille's other elbow and steered her toward the door. "Three ways, if you're willing to share. Can we get whipped cream on top?"

Mirelle let herself be led down the hallway, and finally gave in to their efforts to cheer her up. "All right," she laughed, "but the maraschino cherry is _mine_, Yurika!"

Doujima began a halfhearted protest, and the trio left headquarters behind them.


	8. In Which Two Very Short Persons Take A W...

**Chapter the Eighth:**

**In Which Two Very Short Persons Take A Walk, and The Steward's Black-Eyed Daughter Makes A Good Impression**

A moment ago, it seemed that someone had been calling him. Calling him, again and again, urgently. A name, a voice, echoed in his memory. _Alfred?_ That seemed familiar. Was that his name, or someone else's? His head ached as he tried to remember, and the voice grew more distant and indistinct.

He opened his eyes experimentally, squinting at the golden sunlight that pierced the shade of the leaves overhead. He seemed to be in a forest, but somehow it was more pristine, more beautiful than any wood he'd ever visited. He sat up slowly, gazing at his surroundings in wonder. He had been reclining on an exquisitely carved bench that looked as though it might have grown, enchanted, from the rich earth under the trees. Nearby a narrow, scenic path twined away from him through the glade. He turned and realized that he wasn't in the wilds at all, but was within a few paces of an elegant palace that seemed, like the bench, to have been woven of living things. The bench was just off the end of a wide patio that ran the length of the building, decorated with golden vines and silver leaves and altogether ethereal.

He was equally surprised at his own clothing. He was dressed inexplicably in richly-embroidered silks and velvets that, despite the many layers of fabric, were lightweight and cool. He reached up to run a hand through his hair, but his fingers tangled at his temples. He extracted his fingers and prodded curiously at the delicate braids that traced back from his face. He followed them around the side of his head, and his hand paused as his fingers grazed his ear. He blinked.

By the Valanya, it felt as though the top of his ear were _pointed_…

He blinked again. What was a valanya?

His head was starting to hurt again when he heard voices – real ones, he was reasonably certain, and not imagined – coming toward him. He pressed himself into the corner of the porch and watched as a very short person came into view along the path. Beside him walked an even shorter person. Both were dressed in breeches and tunics, though their garb was not as elaborate as his own. Alfred drew his cloak tight about himself.

"At least Frodo seems to be recovering well," the even shorter person was saying.

The very short person nodded enthusiastically. "That's true. Frodo is grea…" The sentence trailed off as the very short person slowed, peering suspiciously into the corner. "Who is that?" Alfred heard him whisper to the even shorter person beside him.

The even shorter one followed his gaze. "Where? I don't see anyone."

"I thought I saw an Elf there a moment ago."

"Ah, it was probably just a figwit of your imagination, Pippin," offered the even shorter person. "When we get back to the Shire, you'll be seeing Elves under every bush, you mark me." They laughed and continued their walk, passing within arm's reach of the man _– elf? Did they call him an elf?_ – crouched in the corner.

Alfred lowered his cloak tentatively and stepped out onto the path, staring in the direction the two very short persons had gone. Should he follow them, or stay where he was?

"My lord?"

The voice came from behind him. He spun, reaching instinctively for a weapon he didn't have.

"The council is about to meet, and your presence has been requested."

Alfred gaped at the woman before him, dumbstruck. She was beautiful beyond imagining. Her eyes were eternal black pools, her hair a cascade of black perfume plaited with red cord, and she was wrapped in a silken gown that paled beside the perfect cream of her skin…

"My lord? Are you ill?"

Belatedly, he realized he was staring, and he tried for several seconds to speak before his voice began to cooperate. "I… Your pardon, my lady, but I seem to be a bit… lost…"

She returned a quizzical glance, and he wondered if he had spoken inappropriately. But how was he to explain to her that he had no idea who, or where, or what he was?

"Perhaps you should come with me to see Master Elrond," she said slowly, enunciating each word to be certain that he understood. She gestured with her hand and waited for a response, watching him closely.

Alfred shrugged mentally – he had no choice, really – and followed her toward the palatial building. After a few steps, he decided that if he were going to be completely in the dark, he might as well enjoy himself.

"Pardon, my lady, but I seem to have forgotten many things…" There was that odd look from her, again. Perhaps he was using the wrong form of address? "If it please you, might I have the honor of knowing your name?"

"I do not see how the name of a servant may give honor to a lord of the house of Finarphir, but if my lord wishes it…" Flirting, yes, she was definitely flirting with him now. He hoped. "I am Belardess, daughter of Gilrendir, the steward of the house of Elrond. But it may please my lord to call me Bess."

Alfred, gazing at the soft, dark waves of her hair, nearly tripped on his own cloak. Finarphir was new to him, but lord of the house of anything sounded promising. His newly discovered rank, the black-eyed beauty before him… This could be quite interesting.

---

From somewhere far away, a young man with honey-colored hair watched as Alfred's new story began to unfold. There was a glimmer of mischief in his blue eyes. "Nicely done," he whispered into the ear of the young woman beside him. "Thank you, Verdandi."

Verdandi blushed and lowered her eyes. "Any time," she answered, drawing closer to him. "You need only ask, Loki."

**Owari   
_…ka?_**

[AN: Yes, that was the one and only Figwit. And Alfred finally got his Bess (you all figured out who Alfred really is, right? Good! That means you stayed awake in English class). Now, the question remains... who is He? I'm curious to see if anyone recognizes Him. I'll like to hear your guesses!]


End file.
